Chapter 17 #2
At length, Renforth spoke. “Very well, we proceed.”
Baines leaned back once more, though the lightness had not returned to his posture. “I do admire a plan in which the enemy obliges us by stepping precisely where we wish him to.”
“Do not mistake compliance for predictability,” Fielding said. “Men who believe themselves righteous are seldom consistent.”
Arch allowed his gaze to drift briefly towards the fire. “No,” he said calmly, “but they are often bold—and boldness, properly guided, is a most useful thing.”
He felt, with a clarity that admitted no comfort, that they stood upon the edge of something irrevocable.
This was not merely an operation, nor even a confrontation, but a moment upon which far more would depend than any of them might wish to acknowledge.
His thoughts returned to Miss Vale. She, too, had set her trap.
Somewhere between her design and theirs, Kendall moved—unaware, perhaps, of the full extent of the forces now converging upon him…
…Or perhaps not unaware at all.
If Miss Vale’s plan succeeded, Kendall would reveal himself to her. If Renforth’s plan succeeded, the entire conspiracy would be revealed and it would not end well for her friends, yet she knew this and had assisted Arch and his cohorts nevertheless.
He drew a slow breath and met Renforth’s gaze once more.
He remained where he stood before the fire, one hand resting lightly upon the mantel, his gaze settled upon the flames with the appearance of abstraction that Arch knew too well to mistake for distraction.
It was the Colonel’s way, when a matter required exact phrasing, to allow silence to hone it first.
At length he said, without lifting his eyes, “There is another consequence to be considered.”
The group, which had only just begun to ease from the first intensity of the discussion, seemed to grow attentive once more.
Arch, who had already half-formed a list of the tasks before him, turned his attention back. “What consequence, sir?”
Renforth lifted his gaze then, and there was nothing vague in it. “Miss Vale.”
The name, spoken so plainly in company, gave Arch an instant’s unreasonable irritation, though he could not have said why. He kept his expression neutral. “What do you mean?”
“If Kendall makes the connection,” Renforth replied, “she could be at risk.”
No one spoke. The proposition was too obvious, once stated, to be denied; yet its articulation altered the air of the room at once.
Until now, Miss Vale had existed—at least within the structure of the conversation—as an ally, a moving piece, a lady of intelligence who had chosen to hazard something in the service of discovery.
Renforth’s words restored the flesh-and-blood truth of it.
She was not a cipher, a device, or an abstraction. She was vulnerable.
Arch said quietly, “He suspects her already.”
“He watches her,” Renforth corrected. “Suspicion is one matter; certainty is another. Should he conclude that she is not merely adjacent to the scheme but actively assisting in exposing it, he may act before we are prepared.”
Baines swore under his breath. Fielding sat up straight. Stuart, at the window, shifted and turned back into the room.
“Do you think him capable of violence towards her directly?” Fielding asked.
Renforth’s expression did not change. “I think any man capable of facilitating the murder of a ministry is not likely to draw delicate moral distinctions where a woman is concerned.”
“Especially,” Baines added grimly, “if he supposes she has made a fool of him.”
“Unless,” Arch interposed, “she is his weakness.” At once and violently he disliked the image conjured by his words.
He imagined Kendall trapping her alone, pressing for answers—or worse, choosing silence as the safer remedy.
He had known from the beginning that involving Miss Vale carried risk, but somehow he had permitted himself to consider it as social risk—financial entanglement or an inconvenience to her reputation, dangers fit for the world in which she moved.
He had not pictured this. He had not conceived the possibility that a political fanatic, once thwarted, might turn desperate enough to strike at her person.
Renforth observed him for a moment, then said with maddening calm, “I need not explain to you that she must no longer move about unguarded.”
Arch looked up. “No.”
“Then I shall be plain. I should like you to portray to her the necessity of your escort at all times.”
The words were soberly spoken, but they were so precise in their direction that Baines’ brows rose at once and Stuart’s mouth began to twitch. Arch ignored them both. “At all times?”
“At all times that can be contrived without producing greater notice than the danger warrants,” said Renforth.
“There must be no more salons on her own; no journeys to the factories unattended. She must not make calls where she may be observed arriving and departing alone, if those calls touch upon Kendall, his associates, or any business through which money might be channelled.”
Arch folded his arms. “She will not approve.”
“Her approval is not central to the matter.”
Baines made a discreet sound which, in any other context, might have been a cough but was, in truth, suspiciously akin to a smothered laugh.
Arch cast him a look of annoyance, but Baines assumed an expression of injured innocence so extravagant that it only provoked further irritation.
Renforth continued as though nothing had occurred. “In fact, it might be necessary to say you are courting her, in order to protect her reputation.”
That sentence succeeded where all else had not. Stuart turned fully from the window. Fielding’s brows rose. Baines sat upright with such abrupt interest that one would have thought the entire conspiracy instantly relegated to a secondary concern.
Arch stared at Renforth. “Are you serious?”
“Entirely.”
“You are ordering me to conduct a courtship?”
“The appearance of one,” Renforth corrected.
“Society seldom troubles itself overmuch with distinctions once a narrative has presented itself in a pleasing form.”
Baines, who had thus far shown admirable restraint, by his own standards, gave up the struggle altogether and leaned back with a grin of unholy amusement. “There is a stratagem, and then there is a stratagem.”
“Be quiet,” Arch said, without looking at him.
“I have said nothing of substance.”
“That is nothing new.”
Fielding pressed his lips together, but failed altogether to disguise his enjoyment. Stuart, less scrupulous, laughed outright.
Renforth, infuriatingly unmoved, continued, “If Miss Vale is seen in your company often enough—at suitable hours, in suitable places—it supplies a ready explanation for an attention that might otherwise invite comment. An escort thus becomes unremarkable, concern becomes gallantry, and repeated calls become expected.”
“Are you in league with my mother?” Arch asked dryly.
“I shall write to Lord Upton and Sir Percival,” said Renforth. “That will be my recommendation.”
There was a very brief pause, and then Baines bent double with laughter. Fielding turned aside under the pretence of adjusting his cuff, whilst Stuart, whose control had deserted him altogether, went to the mantel as though the support might preserve his dignity where his composure had failed.
Arch looked from one face to another in disbelief. “I am pleased this amuses you.
“Immensely,” said Stuart.
“More than it ought,” Fielding admitted.
“There is also the thought of Sir Percival receiving a solemn military recommendation that you should attach yourself to his niece like ivy to a wall,” Baines said. “That, I confess, is a pleasure I had never expected this day to bring.”
Arch ignored him with difficulty and addressed Renforth instead. “You cannot mean to phrase it so plainly, sir, surely?”
Renforth’s mouth lifted, not quite into a smile but near enough to suggest the possibility had once been entertained. “No, I am capable of diplomacy when required. The substance will remain, nevertheless.”
“Supposing she refuses?”
“Then you will persuade her.”
“That sounds remarkably like an instruction to argue with a lady who is quite capable of winning.”
This time even Renforth allowed himself the faintest alteration of expression. “I have every confidence in your powers of persuasion should you choose to dust them off.”
“He means your endurance,” said Baines.
“Or your surrender,” Stuart added.
Arch turned on them both. “Do either of you imagine yourselves to be helpful?”
“Not at all,” said Baines cheerfully.
The laughter, though brief, did something to lift the press of danger from the room—not by diminishing it, but by rendering it momentarily bearable.
Yet beneath it, Arch felt the full force of Renforth’s meaning.
This was no mere social manoeuvre. If Kendall suspected Miss Vale, then every hour she spent unprotected multiplied the hazard.
Whatever foolishness Society might see in a gentleman escorting a lady too often was preferable to the alternative.
He said at last, more quietly, “She will demand an explanation.”
“Then give her one,” Renforth replied. “Not the whole, perhaps, but enough. She is already involved beyond what is ideal. She has earned the courtesy of the truth where it concerns her own safety.”
Fielding nodded once. “He is right.”
“I know he is right,” Arch returned. “I merely do not relish the prospect of being the bearer of it.”
Stuart, straightening from the mantel, said, “That is because you do not yet appreciate the elegant absurdity of the situation. You must call more often, escort her everywhere, and perhaps declare yourself in tones of solemn admiration—all in the name of preserving appearances. It is a burden almost too cruel to be borne.”
“Oh, I understand the absurdity, I assure you.”
Stuart placed a sympathetic hand to his chest, then glanced towards the clock. “By the by, Patience has returned from Taywards, so I think I will excuse myself.”
Baines’ head came up at once. “Returned, has she?”
“This evening.” Stuart reached for his gloves with an ease which, to anyone who did not know him, might have suggested indifference. To those in the room, it did no such thing.
Fielding murmured, “Then we understand the urgency.”
“A man may face assassins with equanimity, but not keep a wife waiting,” Baines teased.
Stuart paused in the act of drawing on one glove and gave Baines a cool look. “I am not led about by sentiment.”
“No,” said Baines, “only by the noose.”
At this, even Renforth looked away, which Arch suspected was the nearest the Colonel ever came to open amusement. Stuart, however, merely narrowed his eyes.
“You mistake me entirely,” he said. “It is not a noose.”
“No?” said Fielding. “I do not mind the analogy myself.”
“Certainly not. A noose implies constraint. I go willingly.”
“Ah,” said Baines. “Then you have already placed your own head in it. That is a distinction of some importance.”
Stuart pulled on his second glove with unnecessary force. “When your own turn arrives, I shall endeavour to show equal generosity.”
Baines pressed a hand to his heart. “I rely upon it.”
“Be off with you, Stuart,” said Renforth at last, in the tone of a man who had judged the exchange sufficient and no more. “Give Patience my best wishes. We begin inquiries at first light.”
Stuart sobered at once. “Of course, sir.” He inclined his head to Renforth, then to the others. At the door, however, he paused and looked back at Arch with a glint of renewed mischief. “Do let us know how Miss Vale receives your suit.”
The door closed as Baines renewed his laughter.
Arch exhaled slowly. “I dislike him.”
“No, you do not,” Fielding said.
“It depends upon the day,” Baines agreed.